


Striation

by StarHost



Series: Superbia [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Existentialism, Gen, Oneshot, a little vague, internal contemplation, superbia au, thoughts of suicide and death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 01:39:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarHost/pseuds/StarHost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Jane Crocker, and you are pretty useless.</p><p>(set in a super power au. You don't need to read part 1 and 2 to understand this, theyre all standalone oneshots)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Striation

**Author's Note:**

> Detailed info about the universe and some other things: http://superbiastuck.tumblr.com
> 
> TL;DR, Jane has regenerative abilities, and cannot die unless certain specifications are met. She essentially super heals herself automatically, and at this point cannot use her power on anybody else.

You wish you could die. 

Your name is Jane Crocker, and this is probably the last thing anybody expects from you. After all, you’ve been raised on prankster’s gambit; mischief and energy and unusual poise coded into your every organ. Your smile is sugar sweet and you laugh so often your jaw hurts and nobody seems to know whats really going on in your head. You show your teeth and quirk your lips, but caught in your throat lies a festering hurricane, gaining momentum the harder you try to keep it down. 

You wish you could just explode, everything you’re caging in eager to see the light of day, but you know better; though you wouldn’t give a damn either way, you know that now is not the time. You’re not the only one on edge, and though your jaw had been clenched long before any of this, it wouldn’t be right to add kindling to hungry flames. 

It doesn’t stop you from wanting, though.

Your name is Jane Crocker and to be frank, you’re jealous of your friends. Feet drag along the ground as you walk through a path of heavy snow. The consistency is perfect for snowballs, but it sticks to the bottoms of your shoes and ends up slowing you down. You aren’t properly dressed for the weather but you can’t be bothered to care, turmoil in your core enough to keep you warm, for now. You curl a little into the scarf you’re wearing, a beacon of bright blue against the white setting. 

God, you hate winter. Cool air you don’t mind - cold is fine - it’s the muffled silence that comes with it that drives you up the wall. Winter dictates the end of warmth, the end of bubbly talks and constant smiles, snow falling in increments so small you don’t notice you’re buried under your own dissatisfaction until it’s suffocating. Every winter the silence comes, killing the life beneath it and leaving you to echo in your own thoughts. You can’t escape the isolation, and in that it seems you’re not alone. Winter is docile, sleepy. It’s a time of sadness and self-reflection and that’s the absolute last thing you want right now. 

You pull your hands out of your pockets and bring them to your mouth. The tips of your fingers are red, and you breathe on them for warmth. You really should go get a coat, you think, but your feet fail to respond and you don’t bother pressing the issue. 

You stare at your hands against the backdrop of white, and they shake a little as you do. The red spreads slowly down your digits, creep in human application. Your palms are still pale, tense and chilly and void of unique quality. 

What would it feel like to die? You’ve tried to ask about it, posed the question to Dirk when things were calmer and life was in a lull. He didn’t answer, though, just looked at you through his shades with a resolve that said you’d never need to know. 

He’s experienced when it comes to it, walked hand in hand with death since before you can recall. He’s greeted the void like an old friend, and by now it’s simply routine; it’s amazing how little he reacts to slicing himself apart. You may have lived with your ability all your life but you’re still not comfortable, and you’re almost certain his power is worse on so many levels. 

You haven’t slept well the past few nights, not that anyone could really tell. With night came more silence, and every time you closed your eyes you replayed being torn apart, muscle memory sending pain twitching through your limbs. 

It was violent. 

Most times you say in certainty that the rebuild is just as horrible as the dismantle. You wouldn’t think being put back together as a terrible event, but you’ve felt it on more than one occasion, and you know. There are easy ways to die. Quick. Sometimes even painless. But you’ve yet to feel anything close to a painless heal; your innards boiling so hot steam hisses from your wounds, torn flesh welding itself together in your own human furnace. It feels like death in reverse, the moment a body comes in contact with a freight train, slowed down in an inching rewind. 

Your bones regrow, fuse together neat and clean. Muscle twines around, christmas wrapping on a backdrop of gold, waves of new skin coating on top like the incoming tide. 

It hurts in a way death doesn’t, for every time you cheat your bitter end you can feel yourself cruelly torn back from the edge of sweet release. You are always inches from the black abyss when light pulls you up to the land of the living. 

Realizing you’d been holding your breath, you release it, a puff of steam in the frigid air. Your hands are blotchy and stiff now, and in futile attempt you place them back in your pockets. A delayed response, your feet finally begin to move, and your body trudges onward, snow slowly seeping through the calves of your pants. 

Imagine how useful you could be if things were normal. You do, actually. Imagine. When   you’re feeling especially annoyed at everything you are you throw the sentence around your head until it tumbles the edges of your skull smooth. What kind of person would you be, if you were never born the way you were? Would you still be similar, or would you be a completely different you? Your steps crunch softly as you trek forward, and you think to yourself _these could have been the steps of another Jane Crocker_.  

You like to picture, in a normal world, that problems would be petty, and manageable. High school would likely be just as confusing, teenage problems still abound, but without powers and abnormalities, you think, everything would have a solution. There wouldn’t be this air of apprehension, anxiety and fear creeping into everyone’s nerves during a lull and you would never have gotten caught up in all this violence, all this nonsense and bullshit and utter crap. You would fight as friends, maybe, but _you_ would be the one to help; you’d bake one of your famous cakes and everyone would make up and no one would go home with missing limbs or open wounds or scars from where they’d cut off their own head. You’re sure, in a normal timeline, that you could be worth something to everyone, your words would hold an impact much stronger and you would help to be the glue that kept everyone together. In a normal world you would be able to give back for everything your friends have done for you. 

You sigh, and suppose now isn’t the time for normal dreams. People are dying all around and all you can do is save yourself. 

Your walk is cut short by a familiar shape; feet stop at a visible yet apprehensive distance. A figure stands in front, face the blank sort of expressive that you’ve come to call familiar. His lip twitches, and in your thought-provoked daze you try to smile back, surprised that anyone bothered to come find you. 

“Jane.” He says, and you can tell by the way he tightens his mouth that he’s worried - a lacing of relief decodable by a rise in tone. It doesn’t sound like a question but you know it is; he wants to know where you’ve been, if you’re okay. You’re not - you haven’t been anything close for years now - but you hope you look it; you don’t want to deal with whatever he would say otherwise. 

“It’s fucking freezing.” Not a question this time, and he steps towards you almost cautiously, as if you’d bolt at the slightest misstep. 

“...Yeah.”

Maybe you would. 

Before you know it there’s a weight against your back, and you blink the sting of tears away before looking up. Dirk looks bulkier than usual and you realize he’s wearing an absurd amount of layers. A multitude of shirts - you can see the different collars -  and two thick coats make him look like an oddly coloured marshmallow against the icy backdrop. 

That’s right, you remember. He’d moved up north for the school, left his home in southern Texas for foreign lands abound. This is his first look at real snow, his first winter, and his first blast of truly chilly temperatures. It would almost be comedic, you think, if you knew the focus wasn’t on you.

You don’t know how long he’d been looking, but it’d been long enough for him to get your winter coat, and he drapes it over your shoulders like a lifeline. He’s reaching out, trying to stop the hurt he notices but doesn’t comprehend, though all he’s really succeeded in doing is reminding you how cold you are. You quickly slip the jacket on, nodding to him in a silent gratitude, and somewhere inside you feel a little worse.  

Sometimes saving yourself isn’t even a thing you can do on your own. 

“Jake and Roxy are inside,” He says, and you know your solitude is over for now. “We should go tell them you’re okay.”

You nod as a reaction rather than a will. It’s not what you really want, but you know this is the safest choice. You’re useless enough without dumping your problems on everyone else. There’s a hand at your back, gentle in a calculated manner, and he guides you to walk, just enough push to be more than a suggestion. 

You know what’ll happen once you step inside. The feelings wriggling on the tip of your tongue will need to be swallowed, pushed back down to the depths of your intestines and you’ll be all smiles, like the Jane Crocker everybody knows. You won’t show how you really feel outside the confines of your own bed, when you cry yourself into a miserable slumber. 

But you can’t let anyone find out, even though you’re an open book and it’s easy to think they all know. You need to learn to steel yourself on the inside, to bounce your own exclamations outward, away from your organs. You want to be strong. To be able to stand on your own and feel like your life is more than just a waste of resources. 

Dirk is looking at you sideways, through the gap between his shades and his face, and you can see a hint of orange. Are you sure you’re okay, he stares. You’re curled into your jacket, shivering; you must seem so tiny to him. 

You nod back - yes, I'm fine, really - but the intensity of his gaze fails to dissipate; you know he doesn’t buy it. He doesn’t press further, however, just moves a little closer in what you know is his version of comfort. 

It’s a gesture you don’t really deserve but you accept regardless, leaning against him enough to make contact, but not so much that you’d become a burden. You can carry your own weight, the action says, you don’t want to cause any trouble. 

He pauses, tenses up for a fraction of a second, before slowly moving his hand from your back to your shoulder, a stiff side-hug. 

“Dirk?” You ask, and you know the words that follow won’t be ones he’ll enjoy. Your voice is tired, but he hums at you almost soothingly. You sigh in response, letting the sounds of speech tumble out however they please, rivers from the glaciers in your brain. 

“What does it feel like to die?” 

 

 

 


End file.
